


All I Want

by hawkeish



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: 'dickhead' is a term of endearment I promise, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, One Shot, Prompt Fill, Satinalia, just like pure unadulterated fluff, the Hawke siblings love each other in a brutal way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28016022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkeish/pseuds/hawkeish
Summary: "Below it, there’s a link to a playlist. A playlist which, he notices, contains about twenty versions of the same song, All I Want For Satinalia Is You. One’s in Elven. One’s a country version with, inexplicably, some late-night TV host caterwauling over the chorus. One’s by some Orlesian crooner called Michel de Bublé. There’s even one that’s just someone playing the recorder extremely badly over a muffled backing track.It’s an…interesting mix. As he skips through the songs, though, he can’t help but smile. Whoever this truly ridiculous playlist was meant for is a lucky person. It certainly wasn’t for him."-It's the night before everything shuts down for Satinalia, and Carver's agreed to do a favour for Merrill. He doesn't expect to get a 20-song playlist in return, though, and it takes him a second to work out why...Pure festive fluff written for the lovely hollyand-writes/ the DA Drunk Writing Circle, to fill the prompt "You made me a Christmas playlist but it’s just Mariah Carey’s “All I want for Christmas is you”
Relationships: Carver Hawke/Merrill
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11





	All I Want

**Author's Note:**

> no CWs, but there's a bit of swearing!
> 
> also, my modern AU Merrill's a postgrad studying Art History & Cultural Studies - repairing the eluvian is her research project

It’s the evening before everything shuts down for Satinalia, and it’s started to snow.

Which would be nice, if only Carver wasn’t stuck outside Merrill’s door, trying not to break a magical mirror that possesses far too many poky bits as it pokes right into his side. Fingers numb with cold, he’s too busy fumbling with the ridiculous amount of keys she gave him to appreciate the beauty of the Alienage in Firstfall. Bedecked with wreaths, shining baubles and flickering garlands of lights, the vhenadahl is like something from a fairy-tale, dusted with a gentle sigh of snow.

Snow, lights, whatever. Any other night, Carver might let himself be enchanted. But right now, he has one priority—get the damn mirror into the damn apartment without breaking it even more.

And yet here he is, falling at the first hurdle: locked out, with Merrill’s most precious possession leaning on him at an angle that’s making him nervous. It’s not exactly going well. But it _needs_ to go well. He promised he’d get the eluvian - carefully swaddled in some enchanted cloth to “protect him”, whatever that means - from her studio at the Viscount’s College of Art back to her Lowtown home in one piece. If he doesn’t, he’s not sure what might happen. He doesn’t _want_ to know what might happen. Her degree? Ruined. A vital piece of her people’s history? Lost. And as for Merrill herself?

She’d probably never speak to him again, and shit, he can’t think of much worse...

_Click._

The random key he’s shoved in the lock twists, and the door swings open before him.

“Thank the fucking Maker,” he mumbles, then picks up the mirror and barrels into Merrill’s tiny home.

Merrill’s flat is much like Merrill. As in, modest, pretty, and filled with a frankly terrifying amount of knowledge. There are small cairns of books dotted between potted plants and thrifted armchairs, alongside art prints leaned up against walls and notebooks littering her paint-flecked desk. Though she doesn’t celebrate Satinalia, there are a couple of decorations over the tiny fireplace, too. And—is that _spice_ he can smell?

As Carver carefully sets down the eluvian by the window in the corner like she’d instructed, he catches sight of something in his peripheral vision. Two steaming cups of wine-dark liquid set on the coffee table by the fire, and beside them, a neatly-folded note.

Curiosity gets the better of him. Carver wanders over and gingerly picks up the paper, a frown puckering his brow as he unfurls it.

_C._ Merrill’s handwriting is pin-point neat. _I just wanted to say - I do really appreciate you doing this for me. Creators, there’s no chance I could lift that thing on my own! You really are my chevalier in shining armour. I’ll send you a little something to say thanks. M x_

That _x_ does something strange to him; a small chill runs up his spine, and Carver puts the note back down in a fluster. Just as he does, the phone in his pocket vibrates. Still frowning, he pulls it out, then squints down at the text that’s screaming up at him from the too-bright screen.

**_alright dickhead! hope you’re having a lovely day of being a burden on society! did you get the message?_ **

Carver doesn’t need to read the sender’s name to know it’s from his sister.

**_Go back to making shit coffee for people who’ll never sleep with you,_** he types. **_And what message?_**

Surely Ri wouldn’t mean the note. Why would she know about the note? As far as he can tell, Merrill only asked him for help after Aveline and Fenris made some excuse about being _far_ too busy washing their hair, or dancing round their townhouse full of half-decayed corpses, or whatever the fuck it is that they get up to instead of being friendly, helpful people.

Carver wasn’t the first choice. He never is. Which is fine. Totally fine. He’s used to it. Knowing he’s never a first thought definitely doesn’t itch at the back of his mind, or keep him up at night—

“Maker’s breath,” he scolds himself, trying to focus back on his phone.

And then, just as he presses _send,_ another notification pops up. Unknown number; something in him tells him to tap anyway. When he does, a little jolt of static runs through him, warm and fuzzy and disgustingly sweet.

_For you,_ the new message reads. _To say thanks. I knew I wouldn’t need to ask anyone else. You’re all I need for Satinalia. Enjoy! <3_

Below it, there’s a link to a playlist. A playlist which, he notices, contains about twenty versions of the same song, _All I Want For Satinalia Is You._ One’s in Elven. One’s a country version with, inexplicably, some late-night TV host caterwauling over the chorus. One’s by some Orlesian crooner called Michel de Bublé. There’s even one that’s just someone playing the recorder extremely badly over a muffled backing track.

It’s an…interesting mix. As he skips through the songs, though, he can’t help but smile. Whoever this truly ridiculous playlist was meant for is a lucky person. It _certainly_ wasn’t for him.

At least, that’s what he thinks, until he taps back onto his messages app.

Then, his heart does a weird twist in his chest, and the phone suddenly feels like a searing hot coal in his hands. Because, in bold, in the small gap above the text where the sender’s name usually lies, there’s a small line that makes his pulse skip every time his eyes trail over it.

**_Could this be: Merrill Alerion_ **

Carver nearly drops his phone.

This is a joke, right? It has to be a joke. Carver feels slightly seasick. Quicker than he knew his fingers could work, he’s sent a crappy screenshot to Marian.

**_This???????_ **

A few seconds pass.

Ri replies with a voice message. The voice message is a long, horrible, joyous screech.

_Fuck,_ Carver thinks. “Fuck!” Carver says, and stuffs his phone back into his pocket.

His heart’s going wild, now; his palms are sweatier than they’ve maybe ever been. The mulled wine suddenly seems like a very good idea: he takes one in each hand, trying to convince himself he doesn’t fucking hate star anise. Time to chug—

Halfway through his first glass, there’s two light knocks at the door.

Carver freezes, glass still at his lips. Then, he realises that in his haste to get the mirror in, he’s left the door open _._ Panic spears through him, until he remembers that he’s a six-foot-stupid ex-farmer and could definitely take on a burglar. And that burglars probably don’t _knock._

Still, this is Kirkwall. Better to be safe than sorry. Carver holds his breath as he sets the glasses down as quietly as he can and starts towards the door. He’s not punched anyone in a while. Maybe the anxiety coursing round his body from that text will finally give him a decent right hook. Maybe if he catches someone trying to steal Merrill’s stuff, it’ll add to the whole chevalier-in-shining-armour thing. Maybe—

A gentle gust of wind flutters through the apartment, and the door swings open, just as Carver’s barely steps away.

When he sees who’s behind the door, he makes a tiny squealing noise that instantly makes him want to cease existing. Rosy-cheeked and smiling, Merrill stands before him. Flecks of snow are caught in her dark hair and on the chunky knitted scarf wrapped around her neck, and her eyes are glittering beneath the Satinalia lights strung up on the street outside. It’s as if she’s haloed, glowing, a beacon against the dark winter’s night.

She looks beautiful.

“Merrill,” he breathes. “I thought you were...”

“Studying?” She’s smiling, and he feels a bit dizzy. “I was. But I finished - _just_ in time, I think! Did you get the message?”

“Uh—the playlist?” he offers. “Yeah.”

“But did you _get_ the _message_?” she asks again, a grin tugging at the edges of her lips.

Carver frowns. There was a _message_ to _get_? “I—what?”

“Creators,” Merrill says, half-laughing, glancing up at something above him, then back down. When her gaze locks with his, he feels his heart flutter. “Hawke said making you a playlist would be very _smooth._ I’m not sure I’m _ever_ very smooth. I guess I’ll not trust your sister again.”

“ _Smooth_?” he echoes, like an idiot.

Then, he remembers what’s hanging above her door. A sprig of mistletoe, tied up with a neat red bow.

Merrill answers him with a laugh, and a kiss, and Carver thinks _oh._

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! I hope you liked it
> 
> and yes I did spend 2 and a half hours listening to different versions of this song as I wrote for research


End file.
